


harry osborn being an anti for 4 minutes

by brittanyisart



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, i'm not funny and i know it, no beta we die like men, peter parker is petty harry osborn is pretty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25494436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittanyisart/pseuds/brittanyisart
Summary: harry osborn has a grudge against a certain AI, and peter is vaguely amused (but mostly done).
Relationships: Harry Osborn/Peter Parker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	harry osborn being an anti for 4 minutes

**Author's Note:**

> i am uncreative and wanted to sound cool. it very obviously backfired lmao just read

The whole thing begins like this:

Peter rolls over, grabbing the pillow beside him. It’s warm and smells like the ocean, waves of salt and sunshine rolling off it. He hums contentedly, snuggling in.

A rumble of quiet laughter comes from his pillow.

“Hi.” It says.

Peter groans, burying his head into the nape of Probably-Not-Pillow’s neck. The scent of ocean is stronger there, and he breathes in deeply. The body of his pillow fits right against his, all soft curves and delicate padding. He could stay there forever, laid on silk sheets with his arms around human pillow.

“ _Confortable, sommes-nous?_ ” Human Pillow asks.

Peter had not prepared for this.

“Guh?” He says unintelligibly, warmth blooming in his chest. He is attracted to a pillow what the fuck. Who gave Human Pillow the _right_ to sound that good this early in the morning. No one, that’s who. Not even g-d allowed this shit.

Hesitantly, Peter pries his eyes open. He blinks blearily, eyes searching throughout the sunlit room, until they land on the culprit of the Make Peter Fall In Love With A Pillow felony.

It’s his boyfriend, thank g-d.

He lets out a sigh of relief. Pillows are great, but man ‘pillow-sexual’ does not vibe.

‘Harry-sexual’ certainly does, though.

His boyfriend is sprawled on the silk sheets, strawberry blonde waves splattered against his forehead, a blush dusting his freckled cheeks. Harry Osborn is gorgeous, and Peter has the longing urge to leave to get his camera to photograph him.

It won’t take too long, his sleep-muddled brain decides, the camera is right beside the bed.

He stretches towards the camera bag, crawling like an animal that crawls. Harry groans, burying himself into the pillows.

“What time is it?” He asks, accent thick and words muffled by the pillow, as Peter adjusts his camera.

_‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that?’_ Alexa’s voice booms through the box on the bedside, startling them both.

Peter jumps, feathers of the pillows flying around in classic movie fashion.

Harry isn’t so graceful. He topples off the bed face-first, the audible sound of his nose breaking echoing throughout the room. Or perhaps that’s just Peter’s enhanced senses.

Either way, it’s not good.

Like the good boyfriend he is, Peter hurriedly rushes to his lover’s befallen figure, heart thundering in his chest at the mere thought of anything happening to his dearest. Gently, he rolls Harry’s body over and cups his cheeks in true Shakespearean manner.

“Yo Har, you Gucci?”

“Fuck Alexa, and yeah duh I’m always Gucci.”

_‘Can you repeat that?’_ Poor, innocent Alexa asks.

“I _said_ what time is it, you unconventional moron.” Harry’s accent becomes thicker as his annoyance climbs. His words are locked in a vocal fog; all _oo sid zat teem eez eet, chu oonconveentanal moron_ instead of what he intended.

‘ _I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.’_

Harry human growls, like if he were a tiger or something it would be a growl. Unfortunately, he is of the weakling species, so it sounds more like an aggressive whimper.

“I’ll give you something to catch,” He aggressive whimpers again, throwing his fist at the defenseless Alexa Speaker. Harry is an amazing fighter; the evil AI never stood a chance. He shatters her into pieces in one go, like the courageous warrior he is.

“Well done, Har,” Peter says, clapping slowly, “You just assassinated my assistant.”

“Correction: I _lui ai donné un coup de pied dans le cul_.”

Peter stares at him blandly, “See, if my lovely assistant was here, I wouldn’t be wondering what the fuck that means.”

Harry grins, not even gonna translate, cause he’s a little shit like that.

Peter sighs, giving up, “How about we go have breakfast?”

________________

They do go have breakfast, but at Mc Donald’s of all places.

The stinky, traumatizing ass dump, with frankly terrible food.

But it’s fine, because Mc Donald’s brings a happy Peter, and a happy Peter is Harry’s favorite thing in the world, and he’d trade everything for it. Everything except his quality time with Peter because Harry’s selfish, he’s selfish and he wants to be with Peter. Like, all the time.

Which is super wacky and nope he’s not touching this thought with a two-foot pole.

Anyway, they’re at the ass dump for breakfast, Peter is stuffing fries into his nose in true dumbass fashion. Harry’s disowning him, god. Their burgers haven’t even arrived yet.

“What,” Harry whispers, and sheesh it sounds like ‘ _zat_ ’, “are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Being a dumbass.”

“Ah,” Peter nods sagely, “My daily agenda.”

Harry shakes his head, stealing the surviving fries from Peter’s plate and devouring them. Like a little goblin. His darling boyfriend makes an indignant noise, and he laughs manically.

“It’s the price dumbasses have to pay.” He tells him.

Peter opens his mouth, but before he can defend his honor, the cashier yells their number.

“I’ll get it.” Peter says.

“Bitch you have no money.”

“I said I’ll _get_ it, not I’ll _pay_ for it,” and he leaves before Harry can protest further. He sighs, annoyed at the warmth that bubbles in his chest. It’s nauseating; the way Peter’s very existence can melt his insides. The hoe didn’t even do anything, just demanded to get the burgers. Just offered to bring Harry food.

But isn’t that so domestic? _Bringing Harry food_. Harry wants to bring Peter food. To make them equal, of course. Not anything else.

Peter saunters over, bright grin on his face, and burgers in tow.

He looks ridiculous, Harry wants to kiss him. And he does. As soon as he drops the trays, Harry pulls him into a kiss. It’s quick; they’re at a public ass dump, and Harry has some semblance of self-control left. But the briefness doesn’t hinder its value. It’s soft, Peter’s lips tender against his, sinking into him.

They pull away, Peter plopping onto the seat opposite him, his lips swollen and pretty, and Harry feels drunk and greedy. His boyfriend grins dorkily, and he drowns deeper in love.

“Dig in!” He pushes a burger towards Harry, and he finally shifts his gaze from Peter and–

Ew.

The burger is packed with slimy cheese, grimy vegetables, and a half-baked, probably stale ham. He hates Mc Donald’s so much. He looks up, only to find the darling love of his love munching on it like it’s a fucking croissant.

“Peter,” He says, “Qu'est-ce que tu fous?”

“Hmm…?” Peter looks confused, and Harry realizes that he may have slipped into French. He blames his disbelief.

“Are you actually eating _that_?”

Peter purses his lips, still looking like a lost puppy, “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong–” Harry scrubs his forehead. He sighs, grabs Peter’s phone and, “Alexa, please tell this goofball why Mc Donald’s burgers are not good for his health.”

As if she’s morally obliged to, Alexa responds with, ‘ _I’m sorry, could you repeat that?’_

Harry glares at the phone, and Peter snorts.

“Please don’t kill my phone.”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Harry assures.

Peter rolls his eyes, “No.”

He sighs in defeat, but little does Peter know, he gains victory. Alexa has been disabled from Peter’s phone, and Harry is to blame.

Take that, you poor excuse of an AI.

________________ 

(His smugness fades when Peter confronts him via tickling him awake.)

________________

Peter uploads Alexa onto Harry’s phone for. . .reasons.

Revenge? Spite? Little-Shitness? Or just plain humor?

Even Peter doesn’t know. But that’s not the point. The point is he installed Alexa onto the phone of his boyfriend who hates Alexa but loves him. Well, Peter _hopes_ he loves him. The whole thing kinda depended on that factor.

Also, Peter would really love it if Harry loved him. You know, since Harry hung his moon and stars; lights up his world like nobody else; the way he flips his hair gets Peter overwhelmed; and when he smiles at the ground, it ain’t hard to tell. . .he’s everything.

Harry smiles, and something inside of Peter’s chest settles a little.

“Hey,” he knocks against Peter’s forehead, “What’s going on in here?”

“Oh,” Peter says innocently, “nothing.”

He’s a gremlin and he _will_ succeed in either annoying the fuck out of Harry; or converting him into an Alexa simp. He wants to giggle evilly. Motherfucker.

He doesn’t look convinced, so Peter distracts him with a peck on the cheek.

“Good morning!”

Harry blinks, eyelids fluttering prettily; then he grins softly, snuggling closer.

“’morning.” He says in Peter’s chest, and Peter’s heart pounds against his ear. His arms tighten around Harry’s figure, and he slips in the Harry Mindset: all soft hues, shitty pop music, and love, love, love.

Maybe his scheming can wait.

‘ _Good Morning Harry.’_ Booms from Harry’s phone, ‘ _It is currently nine am, EST. The weather has a light rain status. Temperature–’_

Nevermind, it can’t.

Harry leaps out of his chest in a startled haze, once again toppling off the bed. Peter winced; that was _not_ what he had intended. Maybe Harry cursing, perhaps some breaking of phones, but not more of the Harry Falls Off The Bed episodes.

Before Peter can berate himself, Harry climbs back onto the bed and does it for him.

“ _Putain de connard_!” His poor, poor, darling boyfriend yells, “ _Qu'est-ce que ma chérie!_ ”

In French. Lovely! Now instead of feeling like shit, Peter can feel horny. A much better feeling, to be honest, but Peter must Refrain because Harry is Upset.

“ _Cette salope continue de nous tourmenter, oh mon dieu._ ”

“Hey Alexa, please translate.” He whispers to his loyal assistant.

‘ _This [beep]_ ,’ She starts, but doesn’t get to finish, because Harry hurls himself at his phones, clamping it down with his body, and, thus, also clamping down Peter’s hand.

The image, hilariously, reminds Peter of a kitten stretching. He stifles his chuckle with only the force of Harry’s chest pressing down on his hand; he has too much _power_ right now, Peter cannot tease him.

So, instead, he lays there, back pressed to the pillows, hand squished under the weight of Harry’s, frankly impressive, muscle mass, and stares at his boyfriend in wonder – the man who’s hurriedly removing Alexa from his phone in alignment to his p(r)etty nature, the man who stole Peter’s heart with a small smile and nimble fingers, the man who Peter would slay a thousand men for the chance of a glance.

It’s a not a bad view.

________________

Harry’s just home from work – Oscorp has been improving itself for the past five years since Norman’s ‘tragic’ death, and Harry can now proudly call the company his – when the inevitable (knowing Peter fucking Parker) happens.

Well, not right away.

The difference is subtle, at first. A change in the. . .vibes of the apartment. That’s the only way Harry can truly explain it – something’s off, but not in an _‘oh no! another villain wants to kill my boyfriend!’_ sort of way. It’s gentle, it’s futuristic – Harry can sense the fancy stream of technology that has been added to his and Peter’s home – and most notably, it is warm.

He enters the kitchen and rests his bag onto a swiveling chair. It’s empty, of course. Peter won’t be back until 6pm, and even then, after the time he somehow burned water, the kitchen was strictly off-limits.

Harry surveys the room, sensing a presence, but no one is there.

He sighs, shaking his head.

It’s either his mind coming up with stuff to scare him, or Peter being a loveable dickhead and trying to surprise him. He decides, at last, to ignore the buzz he feels – when the time comes, it’ll show itself, be it Peter, or something else.

He makes a beeline to the fridge and pulls out the frozen pizza rolls. It’s quiet – his footsteps the only sound in the empty apartment – too quiet. He hums absentmindedly, to compensate, and heats the pizza rolls.

Then, when humming becomes singing:

‘ _Would you like to me to play “I see the light” by Many Moore, and Zachary Levi, from the movie “Tangled”?’_

The voice comes, seemingly, from the heavens.

It startles him, but he doesn’t jump, not this time. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thanks whatever deity that exists, that he wasn’t holding anything at the time – surely, the unfortunate object would’ve been sent flying.

He scans the ceiling and finds nothing. But he knows it’s there. He knows _she’s_ there – the better version of Alexa. He doesn’t know her name, but he can guess her father.

Peter.

Harry sighs, scrubbing his forehead tiredly. He’ll just prepare the food and interrogate his boyfriend at dinner. That works, yes.

And it’s as he’s just finished setting the table when he hears the fumble of keys outside. The lock clicks, and Peter steps in. There’s some more rustling, until he appears in Harry’s field of vision.

“Hey,” Peter says, surprise evident on his face, before it morphs into _that_ soft look, “I thought you’d be home till 6:30.”

Harry shrugs, sidling up to him to peck his cheek, “I escaped an hour earlier.”

Peter grins and pulls him closer; their hands wrapping around each other’s waist. His head lands in Peter’s neck, and he has to take to moment to breathe him in. He smells like cheap shampoo and lab chemicals – not exactly what one would call ‘homey’ but it’s _Peter_ so of course it’s home.

They pull away, and the spell shatters.

“Thai?”

“Non, _Italian_.”

Peter peers over his shoulder, then stares at him blankly, “Pizza rolls are _not_ Italian. They’re another American knock-off. An absolute butcher. I believed in you, Har. And you just –” he cuts off with a dramatic shake of his head, dabbing at his incredibly dry eyes.

Harry sighs: his boyfriend is _such_ drama queen. Peter seems pretty intent on continuing his dramatics, though, so Harry quickly drags his weightless ass to the table and sits him down.

He plops in chair opposite Peter’s and lights the candles.

“Woah,” Peter says in shock, dramatics long forgotten, “Candle lit pizza roll dinner? For me? You shouldn’t have.”

“And I wouldn’t have,” Harry agrees subtly, “If I’d known you’d be such a dickhead about it.”

Peter looks at him with his stupid pretty eyes and stupid pretty face and says prettily: “No, no. I’m not teasing you; it’s. . .really nice. Thank you, Har. You’re a sweetheart.”

Harry blinks, mind blanking out completely. What was he planning again? Something to do with an AI, maybe? And– oh he loves Peter so much– no, no. Stay focused, Harry. What is the plan?

Peter snarfs down his food, and it clicks.

Interrogating Peter on why is there an AI in the building. That’s the bitch.

“Soo Pete,” he starts, “you haven’t properly introduced me to our daughter.”

Peter chokes on the pizza roll he was stuffing in his mouth. He coughs, and the food falls onto his plate, which – ew.

“Our _what_?!”

“Daughter. You know, the lovely lady in the ceiling?”

Peter continues coughing. Harry is a fantastic boyfriend, so he hands him some water.

“Thanks,” He says, “So you’ve met Karen?”

“Her name isn’t Karen.”

“Tis.” Peter says, tipping the last of the water into his mouth, apparently unaware of how he’d damned the poor AI.

“Oh my _god_ Peter, you dickhead.”

“What?”

Harry points an assertive finger at him, “You’re not allowed to name any of our children.”

He doesn’t realize what he said, not even when Peter stares at him like his heart is in his head; he doesn’t realize it, and he carries on.

“. . .like Karen, seriously? I want a divorce –”

“–we’re not even _married_ –”

“–we will be soon enough,” he doesn’t recognize his implications of this, either, and presses on, “but seriously Peter, you’d support _Alexa_ , a demon from the pits of hell, _and_ damn our daughter to a life of bullying? Really, dickhead? I trusted you.”

“She’s an _AI_ , Har,” Peter interrupts, “She’s not gonna go to school.”

Harry throws up his hands, “Well, shit, Pete. I didn’t realize you’re a robot exclusionist! Everyone deserves proper education–”

“–and she _will_ get a proper education! The internet exists, asshole!”

“Oh? So you think your emotional development would’ve been the same if you didn’t go to school?”

“No, it would have been much better.”

Harry pauses at that, then nods sagely, “School does suck the heart out of you. But, that does that not excuse your disregard of our daughter’s feelings.”

Peter sighs, but there’s a fond smile on his face that makes Harry’s stomach flip like pancakes on Sunday mornings, sunlight pouring in the room. Except his body is the room? And love is the sunlight? How would that even work? You know what, Harry’s done with metaphors. They are not the shit, man. Peter makes Harry feel things, that is all.

“Hey, Karen? I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings?”

_‘It’s alright, Peter.’_ A pause, _‘Harry is my favorite, though.’_

Peter groans, and Harry grins.

Karen is the only AI he’ll ever respect, period.

**Author's Note:**

> join me in [hell](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brittanyisart)


End file.
